and the walls. With a sigh of utter contentment, I go forth, and
shut the door softly.

II
I came home this afternoon just at twilight, and, feeling tired

after my walk, a little cold too, I first crouched before the fire,
then let myself drop lazily upon the hearthrug. I had a book in my

hand, and began to read it by the firelight. Rising in a few
minutes, I found the open page still legible by the pale glimmer of

day. This sudden change of illumination had an odd effect upon me;
it was so unexpected, for I had forgotten that dark had not yet

fallen. And I saw in the queer little experience an intellectual
symbol. The book was verse. Might not the warm rays from the fire

exhibit the page as it appears to an imaginative and kindred mind,
whilst that cold, dull light from the window showed it as it is

beheld by eyes to which poetry has but a poor, literal meaning, or
none at all?

III
It is a pleasant thing enough to be able to spend a little money

without fear when the desire for some indulgence is strong upon one;
but how much pleasanter the ability to give money away! Greatly as

I relish the comforts of my wonderful new life, no joy it has
brought me equals that of coming in aid to another's necessity. The

man for ever pinched in circumstances can live only for himself. It
is all very well to talk about doing moral good; in practice, there

is little scope or hope for anything of that kind in a state of
material hardship. To-day I have sent S- a cheque for fifty pounds;

it will come as a very boon of heaven, and assuredly blesseth him
that gives as much as him that takes. A poor fifty pounds, which

the wealthy" target="_blank" title="a.富有的；丰富的">wealthy fool throws away upon some idle or base fantasy, and
never thinks of it; yet to S- it will mean life and light. And I,

to whom this power of benefaction is such a new thing, sign the
cheque with a hand trembling, so glad and proud I am. In the days

gone by, I have sometimes given money, but with trembling of another
kind; it was as likely as not that I myself, some black foggy

morning, might have to go begging for my own dire needs. That is
one of the bitter curses of poverty; it leaves no right to be

generous. Of my abundance--abundance to me, though starveling
pittance in the view of everyday prosperity--I can give with

happiest freedom; I feel myself a man, and no crouching slave with
his back ever ready for the lash of circumstance. There are those,

I know, who thank the gods amiss, and most easily does this happen
in the matter of wealth. But oh, how good it is to desire little,

and to have a little more than enough!
IV

After two or three days of unseasonable and depressing warmth, with
lowering but not rainy sky, I woke this morning to find the land

covered with a dense mist. There was no daybreak, and, till long
after the due hour, no light save a pale, sad glimmer at the window;

now, at mid-day, I begin dimly to descry gaunt shapes of trees,
whilst a haunting drip, drip on the garden soil tells me that the

vapour has begun to condense, and will pass in rain. But for my
fire, I should be in indifferent spirits on such a day as this; the

flame sings and leaps, and its red beauty is reflected in the
window-glass. I cannot give my thoughts to reading; if I sat

unoccupied, they would brood with melancholy fixedness on I know not
what. Better to betake myself to the old mechanic exercise of the

pen, which cheats my sense of time wasted.
I think of fogs in London, fogs of murky yellow or of sheer black,

such as have often made all work impossible to me, and held me, a
sort of dyspeptic owl, in moping and blinking idleness. On such a

day, I remember, I once found myself at an end both of coal and of
lamp-oil, with no money to purchase either; all I could do was to go

to bed, meaning to lie there till the sky once more became visible.
But a second day found the fog dense as ever. I rose in darkness; I

stood at the window of my garret, and saw that the street was
illumined as at night, lamps and shop-fronts perfectlyvisible, with

folk going about their business. The fog, in fact, had risen, but
still hung above the house-tops, impermeable by any heavenly beam.

My solitude being no longer endurable, I went out, and walked the
town for hours. When I returned, it was with a few coins which

permitted me to buy warmth and light. I had sold to a second-hand
bookseller a volume which I prized, and was so much the poorer for

the money in my pocket.
Years after that, I recall another black morning. As usual at such

times, I was suffering from a bad cold. After a sleepless night, I
fell into a torpor, which held me unconscious for an hour or two.

Hideous cries aroused me; sitting up in the dark, I heard men going
along the street, roaring news of a hanging that had just taken

place. "Execution of Mrs."--I forget the name of the murderess.
"Scene on the scaffold!" It was a little after nine o'clock; the

enterprising paper had promptly got out its gibbet edition. A
morning of midwinter, roofs and ways covered with soot-grimed snow

under the ghastly fog-pall; and, whilst I lay there in my bed, that
woman had been led out and hanged--hanged. I thought with horror of

the possibility that I might sicken and die in that wilderness of
houses, nothing above me but "a foul and pestilent congregation of

vapours." Overcome with dread, I rose and bestirred myself. Blinds
drawn, lamp lit, and by a blazing fire, I tried to make believe that

it was kindly night.
V

Walking along the road after nightfall, I thought all at once of
London streets, and, by a freak of mind, wished I were there. I saw

the shining of shop-fronts, the yellow glistening of a wet pavement,
the hurrying people, the cabs, the omnibuses--and I wished I were

amid it all.
What did it mean, but that I wished I were young again? Not seldom

I have a sudden vision of a London street, perhaps the dreariest and
ugliest, which for a moment gives me a feeling of home-sickness.

Often it is the High Street of Islington, which I have not seen for
a quarter of a century, at least; no thoroughfare in all London less

attractive to the imagination, one would say; but I see myself
walking there--walking with the quick, light step of youth, and

there, of course, is the charm. I see myself, after a long day of
work and loneliness, setting forth from my lodging. For the weather

I care nothing; rain, wind, fog--what does it matter! The fresh air
fills my lungs; my blood circles rapidly; I feel my muscles, and

have a pleasure in the hardness of the stone I tread upon. Perhaps
I have money in my pocket; I am going to the theatre, and,

afterwards, I shall treat myself to supper--sausage and mashed
potatoes, with a pint of foaming ale. The gusto with which I look

forward to each and every enjoyment! At the pit-door, I shall roll
and hustle amid the throng, and find it amusing. Nothing tires me.

Late at night, I shall walk all the way back to Islington, most
likely singing as I go. Not because I am happy--nay, I am anything

but that; but my age is something and twenty; I am strong and well.
Put me in a London street this chill, damp night, and I should be

lost in barrendiscomfort. But in those old days, if I am not
mistaken, I rather preferred the seasons of bad weather; I had, in

fact, the true instinct of townsfolk, which finds pleasure in the
triumph of artificial circumstance over natural conditions,

delighting in a glare and tumult of busy life under hostile heavens
which, elsewhere, would mean shivering ill-content. The theatre, at

such a time, is doubly warm and bright; every shop is a happy
harbour of refuge--there, behind the counter, stand persons quite at

their ease, ready to chat as they serve you; the supper bars make
tempting display under their many gas-jets; the public houses are

full of people who all have money to spend. Then clangs out the
piano-organ--and what could be cheerier!

I have much ado to believe that I really felt so. But then, if life
had not somehow made itself tolerable to me, how should I have lived

through those many years? Human creatures have a marvellous power
of adapting themselves to necessity. Were I, even now, thrown back

into squalid London, with no choice but to abide and work there--
should I not abide and work? Notwithstanding thoughts of the

chemist's shop, I suppose I should.
VI

One of the shining moments of my day is that when, having returned a
little weary from an afternoon walk, I exchange boots for slippers,